The Prologue
Six unlucky souls met their demise in mid-September,
For eternity, their sins, they would be forced to remember.
In the bowels of Limbo, their journey commenced,
Surrounded by agonizing wails of those bitterly incensed.
The sky smoldered in a hue of crimson red,
Concealing the horrors only observable by the hoards of the dead.
The sinners convened at the rivers edge,
Greeted by the ferryman, Phlegyas, which, to the devil, he took a pledge.
"Board the vessel at once, we have no time to waste.
My master is expecting your arrival." He barked in angry haste.
They ascended into the boat and sat single file,
Each now realizing their fate, previously in a state of denial.
Phlegyas paddled the new arrivals down the River of Styx,
Observing each passenger's countenance and thought to himself what a motley mix.
To enliven his passengers, he declared a proposition.
For the duration of their expedition, one would be given a chance to win their redemption on a single condition.
Whoever recounts the best rendition of their death before reaching the Gates of Hell,
Will be given the prize of reincarnation and once again the Earth they will dwell.
The first seat was occupied by a man in military attire,
A young soul of only twenty-five, caught in enemy crossfire.
Joseph was his name, standing six feet tall,
Yet his frame was thin and lanky, and his words revealed a slight southern drawl.
While lacking in muscle definition, he was quite strong,
However, it was mental sharpness that he has lacked all along.
His eyes sparkled a clear, crystal blue,
Seemingly, upon first impression, he was honest and true.
However, to those who knew him, he was anything but honorable before he died.
Instead, he was consumed with arrogance, executed by his own pride.
Impressing others and showing off were his favorite hobbies,
A true hero and soldier, he surely disembodies.
His hair once shaved down to the scalp, now patches began to rearrange,
Like a Doberman infested with a bad case of mange.
His skin was crisp, all tan and rough as leather,
His many months of isolation in the desert made him accustomed to all types of weather.
Upon the boat, while others nearly fainted from the heat,
He neither broke a sweat nor shifted in his seat.
Instead, he remained as still and emotionless as a marble statue,
In his mind, a masterful story of valor he began to construe.
Behind him was Brianna, a high school graduate from Chicago.
She worked as a waitress, holding big dreams for tomorrow.
Day and night she labored to raise money for her college tuition.
Even at the age of eighteen, she was full of knowledge and ambition.
One obstacle, however, stood in her way.
Her boyfriend beat her endlessly till she agreed she would stay.
Her translucent skin, day by day, grew littered with a collection of reminders.
She thought he didn't mean it, but no one could have been blinder.
Her long, burgundy hair hung over her like a protective shawl,
Comforting her fragile frame, resembled that of a porcelain doll.
Her visage portrayed a stoic look,
Though her sorrowful eyes betrayed her, causing her to be as open as a book.
Defenseless, she gave into her boyfriend's selfish desires.
Forfeiting her hard earned money to fund his long list of drug suppliers.
Life became meaningless and nothing but a task,
To make matters worse, her boyfriend turned to robbery and his nightly whiskey flask.
While it was her relationship that turned deadly,
The main cause of her death was her intense sense of envy.
As she sat in her seat upon the boat to Hell,
With vacant eyes, she thought to herself, a story of pity she would sell.
Taylor was the oldest, a doctor of thirty-three.
While medicine was her profession, she was a literary devotee.
Quick witted and wise like an owl, she didn't let anything pass her by,
Even when her husband thought he was being cautious and sly.
Her green eyes shown with the passion of Venus,
But in an instant could turn cold with contempt and emit death's very essence.
Her ash blonde hair was pulled back in a bun,
Aiding in keeping her vision clear and gather her jumble of thoughts into one.
While she only stood at five foot six,
Her brain contained a number of sinister tricks.
Four years before her life had ended,
To the grave, her husband and his mistress descended.
After her husband's cheating tirade came to her attention,
She knew it was to late for an intervention.
She decided that he and his lover deserved to be together as she took a stroll along the meander.
There she found the answer to her dilemma, slipping them each a lethal serving of white oleander.
Undetected in their bodies, for three years the case went unresolved,
Until one day she became grief stricken and her sins she sought to have absolved.
A year later, on this very day, she met her end through lethal injection.
Despite the situation, she sat content on the boat, rather than the rest in states of dejection.
Instead of seeking the chance at redemption, she recalled all of the lives she had touched and stories she had written.
The way she lived her life on the first attempt, she was smitten.
Confidently, she developed her story into a succession of prose,
Depicting the tale of how her wrath had caused this idea to have arose.
